A Warden's life
by Firecadet
Summary: Set several years after the events of Dragon Age: Awakening, This story explores the life of a city elf warden who is also the lover of King Alistair. Told in a series of connected short stories. Some moderate swearing and implied intimacy.
1. Chapter 1

A Brief explanatory section

This fic features a female city elf warden, who romanced Alistair. All companions were recruited, and the ritual was completed by Alistair. Alistair was made king at the landsmeet, and Anora was imprisoned. Loghain was executed by Alistair. The Warden is Bann of the Alienage, and has continued her relationship with Alistair. The events of Awakening are several years in the past.

* * *

Someone was going to find their secret passage eventually, Hermione Tabris decided, as she paused behind the full length portrait of her in full armour, sliding aside the eyes to check the king was alone in his private quarters.

As usual, he was.

At his desk, an ornate construction of ancestral heartwood inlaid with dragonthorn, whitewood and gold, with multiple tiered drawers forming each pedestal, and a small, hidden compartment containing the royal brandy flask concealed under the work surface, her lover, King Alistair, was poring over a large document, which, from the colour of the parchment, she suspected was the latest dispatch from the heavily fortified Ferelden embassy in Orlais, as it used a slightly yellowed parchment, with a seam sown into the top in the form of a set of irregular triangles.

Without pausing, she slid aside her portrait, smiling as always at the slightly more interesting image on the other side of the panel, which showed a very different warden to the main portrait, or at least what the armour hid. As always when planning a liaison, she was in a low cut tavern maid's outfit, made from a combination of fine linen and drakeskin, fastened with a single button at the back.

When he heard the portrait grate open, Alistair turned around, seeing the familiar sight of his elven lover as she pivoted the portrait around to reveal what was under the armour. Then she moved into his arms, holding him close, and allowing the tensions of running both the grey wardens and an alienage to spill out as tears, reminding him of the damaged young woman he'd first seen at Ostagar, before she had undergone the Joining. Although she hadn't ever admitted it, she'd been uncomfortable around humans, and she'd been keeping one hand permanently wrapped around the hilt of her curved elven sword, with her shoulders hunched inwards. When she'd met his eyes for the first time, however, the hazel orbs had been surprisingly bright, and he'd been lost the instant he looked at her whole face, adorned with elegant, faded and swirling woad based tattoos, and surprisingly beautiful, although some others might have called it plain or homely.

Gently, almost unconsciously, he traced one of those swirling lines, his touch soothing away fear and anguish, before she melted into his arms, allowing him to be the strong one, allowing him to set the pace, to control her, and to take her places she'd only dreamt of while they were apart.

After they were spent, they lay together, basking in shared pleasure, holding each other close. Soon though, talk turned to other matters.

"Have you dealt with Anora yet?" the elf asked, running a tender hand along a pale scar Alistair had taken in battle north of Ostagar, on their way north to Lothering.

"Why should I?" Alistair asked, confused as to the sudden change of topic.

"Because if you do not, someone will come along and proclaim her queen, in time, declare you a usurper and criminal, then tear Ferelden in half trying to place her on your throne, with them as her consort. Or they'll have an assassin kill her and blame you for it, then seize the throne at the head of an uprising."

"Why have you been thinking about all of this, suddenly?" he asked, before gently pinching one of her nipples, trying to move matters back towards a less serious topic.

"I've been reading a book on Orlesian politics. This sort of thing is like hawking over there. Everyone does it, everyone knows about it, everyone enjoys it."

"And you think I should…"

"Dispose of her."

"That is a rather callous way to talk about ending the life of another hum… another person."

"As long as she is alive, she is a threat to your kingdom."

"Hermione, if you kill her and anyone finds out, I'll be facing calls for your beheading from all sides of the room, including Arl Eamon and Fergus Cousland, never mind Loghain's former supporters."

"I was planning to make it look like an accident."

"Oh, right. A convenient accident, I'm sure they'll fall for that." Alistair replied, knowing he wasn't in any danger from the woman who'd killed Vaughn Kendells by cutting off his penis and scrotum, then leaving him to bleed to death.

An elbow in his stomach reminded him that although she loved him, that didn't mean she wouldn't hurt him, in play of course.

"How many flights of steps does the tower you've got her locked up in have?" the warden asked, not to be put off from her plan.

"Twenty or so. Old stone ones for the most part, tight and narrow, poorly lit and with somewhat uneven footing…"

"You see what I'm getting at." She asked, as her lover tailed off, realising the opportunity.

"I can't authorise you to kill her. But if she should fall down several flights of steep stone stairs and break her neck or something, I won't have a problem with it."

"I understand your majesty." She said. "I've got a meeting with the elder and our current sister, so I need to get back."

"Ah. Go on then. Be sure to enjoy yourself with the paperwork."

Her look suggested grave peril, before she reluctantly pulled on her dress and left.

_Several Days Later_…

He was beginning to regret his decision to allow a group of enterprising tradesmen and dwarves to set up a printing press in the city, Alistair decided, as he read the latest set of rumours about him and the 'Hero of Ferelden'. "She has a name." he muttered to himself, gritting his teeth at the constant raking over of the coals. It was useful enough for finding out which servants were trustworthy, as periodically two or three of the cities garrison of Grey Wardens would dress up in 'newsy' clothes, and start buying drinks in the taverns nearby, looking for gossipers and those who would offer to get someone into the palace to investigate rumours for themselves. When he got to the next paragraph, however, it was a very different sort of story.

"Former Queen breaks neck in tower fall." He read, curious. "The former queen of Ferelden, Anora Mac Tir, has died in an accident, according to official sources. The queen, who was in her thirties, is believed to have fallen down several flights of steps in the tower to which King Alistair ordered her confined during the landsmeet. She was found by the Warden Commander of Ferelden, Hermione Tabris…" Alistair read, omitting several lines of extraneous rumours about their relationship. "According to officials, she is believed to have broken her neck during the fall, as a result of striking the walls and stairs, before coming to rest halfway down the tower. According to Warden Commander Tabris, the former queen met her at the top of the stairs, before overbalancing while greeting her and falling. When asked to comment on…" Alistair broke off reading, before hurrying to the entrance of the landsmeet, knowing that a debate on tithes for the grey wardens had been scheduled.

When Alistair caught up with his lover, she was marching out of the landsmeet chambers in the traditional level of dudgeon associated with a member of the lower classes finding out, for the umpteenth time, that the nobility mostly exists to justify doing so. Most who'd never seen the landsmeet in session thought it to be a body of responsible noblemen who wanted to do the right thing. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd punched one of them in the face, if the looks of several highly offended noblemen storming out of the hall were anything to go by.

"What was it this time, darling?" He asked, wrapping his arms around her from behind, feeling her armour underneath the elven robe she wore for meetings.

"One of the pampered little sods thought I should help him arrange a marriage with one of the more desirable members of my fief. I suggested he by her a few drinks, or perhaps find some darkspawn for her to fight alongside him."

"He didn't take it well?"

"He threw the first punch!" She said. "I only threw about five back at him."

"Darling, while I applaud your demonstration of conflict resolution, I think next time just hit the little sod once." Her lover told her, his voice serious. "Punch him across the room by all means, but don't repeat the blow unless provoked."

"Your wish is my command." She deadpanned, smiling slightly.

"While I'd like nothing better than to take you up on that, right now, I need to know what happened up the black tower."

"I wanted to visit her. I dug some wine out of the cellar, a decent Orlesian vintage, and took it up to her. While she was welcoming me to the top floor of the tower, she slipped and fell past me down the stairs."

"Her neck _did_ break during the fall, right?" He asked, nervously.

"Of course it did." She comforted him, before whispering in his ear; "Chambers, now."

Once they were safely ensconced in the highly secure, magically warded chamber, with three locked doors, a heavily decorated stone corridor and eight heavily armed grey wardens outside the furthest door and therefore between them and certain highly trusted members of the landsmeet and bannorn, they got down to business.

"Did she break her neck in the fall?" Alistair repeated.

"It was broken in two places by the time she landed." Hermione replied, smiling slightly. "So yes, she did."

"Did you help matters along slightly?" Her lover asked, knowingly. "I mean, I know a broken neck is a common injury sustained falling down

"I may have ensured she'd suffer a neck breakage." She said, smirking slightly.

"Was she dead before she fell?"

"I don't know. Her neck was certainly broken, however."

"If someone with a suspicious mind were to examine her body, would he find any evidence she was murdered?"

"They'd find evidence of a variety of recreational substances, including Cantacbo and lyrium. I was providing the caterers for her accommodation, and they were drawn from organised crime rings originating in Tevinter and Orlais. They were told to put some packets in her food by an individual they believed to be working for the local underworld. There will be no leads, no evidence and no proof I killed her."

"I think we need to discuss your _punishment_." Alistair said, before reaching behind his pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

The taper was beginning to burn down in the office of the elf woman known, among other names, as Warden Commander Bann Hermione Tabris. She was an unassuming looking woman, little taller than a dwarf, stocky for her size and no more than attractive to look at, despite being the mistress of the king. It was a hot, muggy day, the sort of day when all work stops at one in the afternoon, and all life adjourns to the nearest tavern for tankards of ale kept cool via both magic and ingenuity. In one corner of her office, Hermione displayed a souvenir of the era in which she had earnt her rank and prestige; a full set of grey warden battle plate, complete with the elven helmet that indicated either elite status or having fought the fifth blight, with a metal kite shield, emblazoned with the twin gryphon insignia of the wardens at its feet. Both armour and shield showed the tell-tale signs of heavy use, being dented and battered through use, with chunks taken out of the shield's rim and off of some parts of the armour. On the wall above the suit hung an elven curved blade, showing equal signs of use and battle, with dozens of nicks in the blade, often representing a particularly dangerous darkspawn felled by the blade.

Suddenly, there was a thunder of feet on the stairs, before the door to the small office crashed open. With reflexes honed by the fifth blight, she stood, her chair toppling backwards, before swinging around, holding a letter opener made from a dragon's fang in one hand and a small serving dish in the other. Her abrupt visitor was another elf, the same height as Hermione, but with startling red hair as opposed to a somewhat unassuming brown. "Shiani?" Hermione asked, forcing herself to stand down. She was promising herself a bandit camp or two for her birthday, perhaps on the way to join some dwarf patrols of the deep roads. She owed herself the excitement after spending more than a decade mainly doing administrative work and hunting down pickpockets and thieves inside Denerim. The last darkspawn she'd killed had been well over a year ago, when she was surprised on the road riding back from Amaranthine by about twenty or so. As workouts went, fighting twenty darkspawn with just a shield and sword most definitely was at the strenuous end, she recalled, smiling slightly.

"There's a mob outside the gates!" Shiani gabbled out, falling over the words in a degree of panic. "They've got a massive bench; they're trying to use it to break down the gates. Soris and three or four others are trying to dissuade them, but they're determined."

"Any pitchforks?" Hermione asked, going through an almost invisible limbering up exercise as she signed the forms to authorise another terpen expansion, making a note that the base needed to be up to royal fortress standards of masonry.

"Mostly billhooks and cleavers. Some of them are throwing stuff as well." Shiani replied, understandably nervous, given her previous experience with drunken male humans.

"Will they get inside in the next five minutes?" The warden asked, glancing over at her armour.

"Soris has a brewer's dray backed up against the gates, and he's grabbed an old mattress off of the dump, along with some ropes. It'll hold."

"Give me five minutes." Hermione Tabris, Warden Commander, replied, striding purposefully over to her somewhat used armour. Several of the dents had involved ogres, she recalled, shrugging the torso plates over her shoulders, along with their accompanying chainmail, then fastening her thigh-guards and greaves into place, making a note to visit an armourer to have the chestplate let out slightly. The arm-guards were snapped into place next, before her sword-belt went on, her helmet was fastened in place, and she pulled on her armoured gauntlets, before picking up her battle-scared shield, and clanking down the stairs wearing the same suit of armour she'd warn to face down the Archdemon on the roof of Fort Drakon.

"Shiani, could you get the door?" She asked. "Send a runner to let Soris know to get the brewers dray out of the way of the small gate, and to unlock the access gate in the portcullis so I can get out there."

"There are over three hundred of them!" Shiani said, not in protest or horror, just stating the fact. "Do you want some of our archers covering you?"

"No archers. Take everyone off of the walls before I go out. If I have to draw this thing," she said, patting her sheathed blade, "it is already too late to do anything."

"As you command." Shiani replied, before relaying the orders to a runner stationed outside.

"Have them form up inside the gate, and issue the pikes." Hermione ordered. "I don't want them outside if we can help it, but if I need them, I'll need them in seconds."

"Understood." Shiani replied.

"Let's not keep the good gentlemen waiting any longer. If you can dig out Zevran, send him along with a shoe up his arse. This is his gate watch, not Soris'."

"Aye aye." Shiani replied, holding the door for the walking ironworks that was her cousin in full armour.

Outside, the mob began cheering as the armed sentries filed off of the top of the gatehouse and walls either side of it, punctuating the cheering with volleys of bottles and stones, with a few bricks and the occasional fire potion thrown for good measure. They could hear a slight creaking noise behind the gates, but they bunched closer towards them, gripping their weapons in the hope of getting at the overly fortunate elves inside.

Then, astonishingly, the porter's gate opened. Out through it, however, stepped one of the most frightening figures they had ever seen. Barely taller than a dwarf, the elf woman wore a curved blade at her side, with a metal shield strapped to her arm. On her head, she wore a crested helm only worn by a few wardens, all of whom had travelled together during the fifth blight, or earnt the right to wear it since. Her armour was well polished, although it showed the scrapes, gouges, chips and dents of armour that has seen more battles than most armies, ranging from damage around the shoulder-pads and gauntlets to a deep, brutal dent across the width of the breastplate. Without any thought, the rioters began to back away slightly, the sign of the lone, disdainful and entirely unintimidated knife-ear more threatening than several squads of guards clustered behind the mob, clearly waiting for troops from the palace to arrive.

It was time for action.

"Who would like a cup of tea?" She asked, standing in the least threatening fashion possible in full armour with a sword at her side, taking off her helmet once it had had the desired effect.

From the back of the front ranks of the crowd came a belligerent bellow from a conveniently out of sight hooligan. "It's only one knife-ear. Why so worried? Kill her, and we'll finish the rest of them as soon as we get inside."

"It's the warden!" One of the more intelligent members of the mob, who just happened to also have line of sight to the somewhat unamused looking warden, replied. "She fought an archdemon alongside the king and lived. She survived Ostagar, retook the mages tower after a demonic rising and stormed redcliffe castle alone. Do you really want to fight her?"

"I'm not a darkspawn." The belligerent thug replied. "Damned knife ears need to be taught a lesson."

"Gentlemen." Hermione replied, surreptitiously loosening her sword in its scabbard. "Why so aggressive? Have we offended you in some way?"

"Damn right you have!" the man shouted. "You knife ears have been cheating humans and dining on fine wines and peacock while the rest of us scrape by with barely enough to eat. I've heard stories that some of the children that have gone missing in the city weren't stolen by tevinter slavers on the docks, but brought here to be served, alive, as the main course in your banquets."

"I bet we caused the fifth blight as well." Hermione responded, keeping her voice extremely level, remembering the time she'd once punched the now deceased Queen Anora for not knowing why the elves had rioted in the alienage. "I also reckon you would say we burn every priest of the chantry who comes here, and that we want to destroy Andraste's ashes as well."  
"Well…."

"We don't."

"Right… er, anyway, let's get her, boys. Show the knife ears what we think of them."

There was no massed charge, as the speaker expected, rather a shuffling of feet, various glances to either side, hoping someone else would make the first move. Behind the fully armoured warden, the gate banged open again, this time with a number of the more attractive female elves, wearing their best outfits, loose-fitting white summer dresses showing a generous amount of cleavage, carrying a trestle table, a tea urn, and several crates of cups and saucers. Another group followed with biscuits and cakes, all baked hours earlier in the various bakeries inside the alienage.

"Gentlemen, I think we can all conclude this has been a misunderstanding." Hermione said, resting her shield against one of the newly erected tables, while the tea squad began lowering buckets of water down from the ramparts, along with firewood and dainties, donated by the single sweetshop that had sprung up since the end of the blight. "I think you've all had a few drinks, and that a few cups of tea would make it all better."

"You'll poison us…" the thug began, shortly before several of the unarmed civilians standing behind him introduced him to the fact they were in fact two hundred pound slaughterhouse workers with poleaxes, politely cracking him over the head with the shafts before hauling him out to the front of the crowd.

"Where do you want him suspended, your honour?" one of them asked, glancing around for a suitable rope or other attachment point.

"Just get him home." Hermione responded, not wanting to risk inflaming a riot by hanging someone now she had got things nicely calmed down.

Behind her, someone (she suspected Zevran) had broken out an accordion, while a small group manhandled a hastily despiked pikestaff out of the gates, before catching ropes thrown down from the top of the gate and using them to raise it, and a supply of bunting and banners, up to roof-level, while a pair of archers fired the far ends of the bunting into roof-joists on the far side of the small plaza, quickly creating a carnival atmosphere. Someone also produced a small fiddle, and before long, there was a lively reel being played.

When the mounted dragoons from the palace arrived, the drinks were flowing, music was playing, and the only thing left to do was to join the impromptu street party.


End file.
